


Gun Ploy

by feistymuffin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cute, Established Relationship, Fluff, Guns, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk is not a fan of firearms. He is, however, very fond of someone who is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gun Ploy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I'm a helpless idiot with these two. c: Enjoy this cute drabble that gave me diabetes.

You can do this. You can fucking do this. You are Dirk Strider, fucking cool dude overflowing with sick rhymes and ironic mannerisms. You battle monsters in universe-altering games and you are one sexy beast.

Except what the fuck is this ugly, retarded thing in your hand that you have no idea what the fuck how does it even work you have no clue.

Jake English is only ten feet away, to your right, firing away like a pro. His face is determined, set, and alive. He’s having a fucking grand old time.

You look over to him, studying him and trying to copy his pose. Spread feet, not obnoxiously wide, but steady. You’re tempted to crouch, but no, fuck, this is a gun, not a sword, you don’t crouch. You look again. Uh, straight arms. Arm. One arm straight. The other one… supporting it? You’re not sure, because now all of a sudden Jake is dual-wielding. Fuck sakes.

“Jake,” you grumble when his clip runs out and he moves to reload. “Come on, fuck, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He doesn’t notice you. At all.

“ENGLISH,” you practically bellow, getting strange looks from several fellow patrons at the range.

The adventurer turns at your voice, sees you and trots over, pulling off his ear muffs and grinning from ear to ear. “How are you doing, Strider?”

“I feel like a little girl in a fucking biker bar,” you tell him. “This is ridiculous, I’m so—I don’t know what the fuck to do with this piece of crap.” You hold up the gun in your hands, turning the motion into an uncomfortable shrug. Holy crap are you uncomfortable with everyone staring at you, Jake’s hand is on your hip and you can’t tell if you’re more embarrassed from him or this idiot machine in your hand.

He smiles sympathetically. “Okay, okay. Calm down, chap, I’ll get you fixed right-quick.”

You look away, irritated. “I don’t want to do this.” You feel like a child complaining about not going to didney worl. Fuck sakes, why does Jake always have this embarrassing power over you?

Literally, the power to embarrass you as much as possible. How the fuck. You used to be cool. 

Well, not anymore, bitch.

He steps behind you, putting his hands on your shoulders and turning you to face the target at the end of the alley. Field. Range. Cockpit. You don’t know what the fuck to call it. The empty space between you and a dummy that you want to slice up like Havarti cheese, not shoot at it with a pellet gun from a hundred feet out. His hands correct your hips to the proper stance along with nudges from his feet to yours.

“Keep your shoulders straight,” he tells you, his breath tickling your neck. His head hovers over your right shoulder—fuck, the bastard is taller than you and do you hate that—while his hands slip to your arms, lifting them to point the gun at the dummy. “Look down your arm, aim with the sight at the end of the gun barrel.” 

“What fucking sight?” you ask blandly. “There’s like a mouse-sized horseshoe thing on it, is that a sight? Because that isn’t a sight, that’s a mouse-sized fucking horseshoe—”

“Yes,” Jake laughs, and you melt a little. His chest, right behind your back, brushes up against you. You try not to make it obvious that you are developing a fucking boner while your boyfriend tries to teach you how to shoot a stupid gun. Yeah, no. He knows.

He steps closer to you—the bastard—and puts his hands over your elbows. “This elbow a little bent,” he murmurs right in your ear, gently rubbing your left arm. You comply, and your breathing is a little heavy. His right hand slithers down your arm all the way to your wrist and back up again. “And this one very straight…”

“Jake,” you murmur, “this is not fair.”

He leans to you and kisses under your ear. “Aim and pull the trigger, Dirk.”

Inhaling slowly for more than one reason, you try to focus on your target, that stupid fucking dummy, and when you figure it’s as steady as you’re getting, you tense your index finger around the trigger and fire.

The kickback shocks you, though you were assured that it’s not as bad as a revolver’s. It still staggers you back slightly, but of course Jake is there to steady you. 

“Wonderfully done, old boy!” he exclaims. “I think you definitely hit him square between the eyes!” He grins like an idiot at you, so you lean in and steal a kiss from those teasing lips.

His face is priceless when you pull away. “Like I’d let you get away with that bullshit you just pulled,” you tell his red face.

“There are people here,” he began, but instead of listening you put down the gun and step to him, wrapping your arms around his torso and smirking slightly.

“Nah,” you say, kissing his lips again, then his chin and the corners of his mouth. “Just us.”

Jake smiles, really smiles, and you can’t help but think that yeah, you’d take a bullet for this guy.

Fire one? Not so much.


End file.
